Misunderstandings
by StoneWingedAngel
Summary: Five times Sherlock and John misunderstood each other - or were misunderstood by someone else - and one time everybody got the message.
1. The Waltz

**Warnings: Progressive Sherlock/John**

* * *

The hotel was far fancier than any John had ever been to before, all polished wood floors and thick cream wallpaper. There was even a fountain in the lobby, although what need a lobby had for a fountain he would never understand. Sherlock, of course, flounced around as if he owned the place; he was the same wherever he went. Put him in anything from a shady bar to Buckingham Palace and he'd act as if he'd been born there. John was less adaptable, feeling out of place.

"This is ridiculous," he murmured as they passed through a corridor with gold chandeliers practically bursting from every available bit of ceiling. "It'll cost a fortune…"

Sherlock only adjusted his collar and smirked. "Mycroft's paying; it's hardly our concern. Chasing criminals can be an expensive business."

"It is if your criminal likes to stay here," John said, glancing around again as they made for the lift. "Look, they've even got a bloody ballroom!" He pointed to a room where people were standing around, drinking and dancing.

Sherlock let his eyes pass over it briefly as they stepped inside the elevator and pressed the button for the tenth floor.

"I used to dance, you know," John continued with a smile. "At school. We had a compulsory dancing competition in sports every year. Sometimes I came second or third." Sherlock only made a vague humming sound, and John took it to be a version of 'bored of this' and changed the topic. "You get the room we want?"

"Ten B, yes. Right next to Ten C."

"Where our embezzler can be kept well within our sights," John finished dramatically, waving a hand. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

The lift reached floor ten and Sherlock took a key from his pocket and made his way to the door marked 'B'. John could tell just from the spacing of the doors that the rooms were huge. He felt too short as he stepped inside it and was met with large amounts of blue, expensive looking material and polished wood. "Wow," he murmured. "Nice."

"Mm," Sherlock said again, handing John the key and heading back out the door after a cursory look around. "Bye."

"Hang on!" John said. "Where are you going?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes a second time. "To keep tabs on Mr Field, as I believe he's currently calling himself. Don't expect me back for a bit."

John sighed as the door banged behind Sherlock and he was left standing in the immense room, wondering what to do. He could go wandering around the hotel, but he didn't think an oatmeal jumper and old, comfortable trousers were the correct dress code, and the rest of his clothes hadn't arrived yet.

For the next half-hour or so he took childlike pleasure in exploring the room. There were two sections to it, one being the actual bedroom part, which looked more like a whole house all assembled in one space; there was a double bed, a large sofa, several chairs, a fridge, a table with a silk blue cloth and a bowl of fruit on it, wardrobes, drawers and cabinets. He wasn't worried about sleeping arrangements, seeing as Sherlock hardly ever slept on a case, and if he did he'd be hardly bothered about where.

The second area was a bathroom, larger than the lounge back at the flat, all blue and white tiles. The bath was sunk into the ground and surrounded by complimentary shampoos and soaps, there were two sinks – why the hell they needed two he didn't know – and the towels were so fluffy he felt he could get lost in them. One whole wall was just a mirror. Mad.

He wandered back through to the main area and helped himself to an apple from the bowl on the table before looking in the fridge and deciding he probably couldn't afford to eat or drink anything in there. As he closed it there was a knock on the door, and he opened it to find a porter, all dressed in red, standing outside with their suitcases.

"Shall I take them inside sir?"

John blinked stupidly – he didn't think he'd been called 'sir' in years – and the porter looked at him oddly until he managed to stutter out a "yes please." The bags were left at the foot of the bed and John managed to remember to give the porter a tip, although he got the impression it was far less than he was used to from the dirty look he was given.

He spent a little while unpacking his two suitcases and placing the items in the wardrobe. Usually he would have brought far less than he had, but Sherlock had insisted he bring both formal and informal clothing, and now John realised why; a full suit may have seemed superfluous when he was packing, but now, as he slipped it on the hanger, he was glad it was there. Sherlock had three bags, which John left in front of the sofa before digging out one of his newly-unpacked shirts and sitting on the bed. He wouldn't be wearing his jumper for a few days, and he reluctantly pulled it off, throwing it down on the floor before tugging his t-shirt after it.

He'd only just got it off, and was about to put the shirt on when the door flew open and Sherlock strode in, threw off his coat and announced:

"John, I want you to take me!"

It took John a full second actually register what Sherlock had said, and he choked, spitting out the piece of apple he'd still been chewing.

"Sherlock, wh-"

Sherlock cut across him, reaching up and beginning to unbutton his purple shirt. "Of course, I haven't done it before – mummy didn't approve – but I'm fairly sure you can teach me. You've got the experience."

John gaped, thoughts whirring so fast he didn't have time to register the fact that Sherlock had apparently lost his mind. He sat, frozen, as Sherlock pulled his shirt over his head and approached the bed, not even managing to gather himself enough to move away.

"This is very…um…sudden," he croaked eventually – why he wasn't leaping to his feet and immediately screaming at Sherlock to get away he didn't know.

Sherlock stopped and put his hands on his hips. "Hardly. Now get the rest of those clothes off."

John's cheeks immediately went bright red. Oh god. He cleared his throat. "No, I don't think so…"

A frown crossed Sherlock's face. "Really John, not like you to be shy…"

"Shy?" He gave a laugh that was too high pitched. "This isn't about being shy!"

"Well, what is it about then?"

He was lost for words for a couple of seconds, trying to put what he was feeling into words. "It's about…timing. And…society. You can't just come in here and demand I do…that. It's creepy." He folded his arms over his bare chest. "And I don't appreciate it."

The frown on Sherlock's face grew deeper. "Have I missed some kind of social convention?"

"I'll say you have!" John got to his feet. "There are all sorts before you get to this part! You've got to like each other and-"

"We like each other. We're friends."

"Shut up." He put his hands to his head and scrubbed them through his hair. He should out and say it – we're not dating, you're not interested, we don't, can't, like each other. "What's brought this on?" He almost hit himself – not exactly the question he'd been hoping to come out with. Some days he swore his brain worked for the enemy.

Sherlock blinked. "The need to capture our suspect, of course."

John's whirring thoughts screeched to an immediate halt. "What?"

Now Sherlock merely looked concerned. "John, are you feeling alright? You look very red."

"Fine…" he muttered distractedly. "What were you talking about?"

"I want you to take me dancing," Sherlock replied, slowly, as if he were talking to a child. John's mouth snapped shut. Dancing. Of course, of course – the 'experience', the ballroom. Dancing. His shoulders relaxed and he sat down heavily on the bed with a sigh.

"Oh. Of course. Yes, I'll teach you to dance."

Sherlock continued to look at him as if he'd contracted a mildly worrying disease. "What did you think I was talking about?"

The look on his face made John smile, and then he giggled, and then he was laughing, gripping the sheets as his sides shook. "S-sorry," he gasped. "It's just…when you stroll into a bedroom and demand I remove my clothes…"

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Oh. No. No, not at all." John found the way he stumbled slightly over the words even more amusing. "Of course I meant you needed to change your clothes into something more formal in order to dance. And Mr Field currently happens to be in the ballroom, which is why we need to dance at all."

John waved a hand, still chuckling. "Yes, yes I know." He got up and went to the cupboard, got out his jacket and trousers, and his smartest pair of shoes. "I'll change in the bathroom and meet you here in five minutes."

* * *

"This is a waltz," John said ten minutes later – Sherlock had insisted on changing his shirt twice, and then moving the table to the side of the room so they had more space. John placed his right hand on Sherlock's shoulder blade. "Put your left hand on my shoulder."

Sherlock obeyed, the movement smooth and graceful – effortless really. John was jealous of him. He ignored the way the heat from Sherlock's hand was soaking through into his shoulder in a way he found almost comforting.

"Now, watch my feet."

They had no music to dance to, but he remembered the steps reasonably well, getting into a rhythm swiftly. Sherlock was a little hesitant at first, but soon picked up the correct motions; he could learn pretty much anything if he set his mind to it. They waltzed for a few minutes – Sherlock kept trying to lead, switching their hands over – until John thought they had the hang of it and pulled back.

Sherlock's cheeks were flushed, probably from the heat of the room, which was nearing sweltering, especially when you were wearing a suit. "This should be sufficient, John," he said eventually.

John nodded. "Alright. Are we going down to the ballroom now or later?"

"Now," Sherlock said, adjusting his collar and getting the key to the door off the table. "Mr Field doesn't stay in one place for long."

They left the room and went into the lift, where John re-did his shoelace – he felt less out of place, but more uncomfortable. Suits weren't really his thing, and he thought the last time he'd worn a full one had been at Harry's wedding.

"Do stop fretting," Sherlock said haughtily as he straightened up. "I assure you the suit looks perfectly acceptable on you."

John rolled his eyes. "You're the master of compliments aren't you?" he teased, leaning back against the side of the lift and smiling as it slowed and an elderly couple got on. The rest of the journey was spent in awkward silence – John could see Sherlock's deductions flickering across his face, but he didn't say anything out loud, and they were able to reach the ground floor without anyone getting offended or angry. John was pleased to find that no-one looked at him oddly in his suit. Perhaps Sherlock had been right after all.

The ballroom was full of dancers waltzing to the slow music, and Sherlock immediately grabbed John and pulled him amongst them, starting to dance.

"Where's Mr Field then?" John murmured, looking discreetly around the crowded hall as they turned and trying to pick out the face from the blurry picture he'd seen in the folder Mycroft had showed them.

"To the left," Sherlock replied, barely audible over the music. "By that plant, talking to the woman in the black dress."

John glanced over at him and nodded. "What do you want us to do if he moves?"

"Follow without being seen. If he stays in the hotel it doesn't matter, but if he leaves we need to track him and possibly bring him in. You've got your gun?"

"In the room," John muttered, cursing himself. "It wouldn't have fitted in my suit."

At that moment Mr Field turned towards them, still talking to the woman. Sherlock quickly leaned closer to John, hiding his face by resting his head on top of John's and turning them sideways. John flushed, but understood the necessity; Sherlock was fairly recognisable to those who might be looking out for him, and the last thing they wanted was for their target to get wise and scarper. Sherlock's hair tickled his cheek and caused him to chuckle softly.

"What?" Sherlock whispered, turning them again. John kept half an eye on Mr Field, who'd looked away from them, and wondered why Sherlock wasn't pulling apart now the danger had passed.

"Nothing. Just been a bit of a mad day."

Sherlock's shoe snagged on his own and they had to take a second to steady each other as the music changed to a slower tune, the lights dimming very slightly. John giggled again – it was all very silly, he knew, but he almost liked it, even if it meant they had to move closer to their target to actually see him.

"John?" Sherlock murmured, revolving slowly on the spot and lifting his head back – John knew he was checking for Mr Field at the same time as talking.

"Yes?" John replied, a little too quickly, managing to steer them around a woman in a bright red dress who was arguing with her dance partner in barely-hushed tones.

"When you thought I was suggesting…what I wasn't suggesting…" There was a guarded tone to Sherlock's voice that had John pricking up his ears. "What seems…unusual is that although you were surprised you didn't shout no straight away."

John blushed furiously and clenched his hands around Sherlock's, although he was still smirking. He didn't reply.

* * *

**I figured it was time for something a little more light-hearted. Mostly. **

**Thanks for reading. Reviews welcome!**

**To be continued. **


	2. Boo

It had started out as a joke; something for Halloween. John, ever the victim of Sherlock's annoying habits, wanted to get his own back. He was tired of coming home and being greeted with smoke and slime and god knew what else, and being told it was 'simply an experiment'. He wasn't a vengeful man, but he certainly needed something to get back at Sherlock Holmes. Halloween was the perfect time.

His prank took little preparation – a bit of makeup and some old pyjamas he tore holes in were all he needed. Nothing elaborate. As it was he probably wasn't going to fool Sherlock for more than a single second, but making him jump would be satisfying.

The only problem was that Sherlock didn't seem to be moving anywhere, and he definitely needed to be out for the plan to work. The makeup and pyjamas were sitting ready at the bottom of John's cupboard, but unless Sherlock shifted anytime soon he was going to have drastically re-think.

"Bored," Sherlock muttered, sitting up on the sofa and drumming his fingers on his knees. "Bored!" His expression clearly said 'do something about it'. John groaned and scrubbed a hand over his face, exasperated.

"What do you want me to do, commit a triple murder?"

Sherlock glowered at him. "Obviously not. Not only would the fact I'd know who'd killed them render the whole activity useless, but I'd be forced to put you away, and hen there would be no-one to make tea or vacuum."

"Nice to know how much you appreciate me," John muttered, rolling his eyes. "Why don't you go and pester poor Molly for body parts?"

To his surprise Sherlock actually picked up his mobile and fired off a text, and, a few minutes after receiving a reply, he got to a his feet. "Molly has some livers that might be interesting," he said nonchalantly, although John knew that inside he was already planning numerous experiments that would no doubt result in horrific messes.

Five minutes later Sherlock was gone, and John could finally put his plan into action. He raced to his bedroom and pulled on the torn pyjamas, then took the makeup into the bathroom and began to apply it. It was only face paint and powder, and not very good quality – it was a good job he didn't have sensitive skin – but even so he managed a fairly convincing zombie effect by putting pale powder all over his face and tracing some soft smudges under his eyes. He knew he didn't have time for his hands, but he put a couple of faint scars in pale red and pink on his forehead, smudging them to give a veined, bloody effect, and then quickly packed the whole lot away, turned off the lights in the sitting room, sat bolt upright in his chair, and waited.

The thought of Sherlock believing zombies had risen on Halloween was one John found funny, and it made him want to giggle, but he kept a straight face. Fifteen minutes passed, then another ten. It was taking longer than John had expected, and now he was trapped in his chair, unable to move in case Sherlock suddenly came back and the whole thing was ruined. The darkened room was making him drowsy – he'd been running around on cases for the past week, which had tired him out – and he felt his head begin to nod.

He slipped into a doze, woke to the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and cursed himself because now he was left with no time to re-position himself before Sherlock came in. He dithered, and eventually stayed where he was, slumped a little over the arm of the chair – the pose would have to do. He'd only just opened his eyes, staring at a spot on the carpet and feeling hard-done to because it meant he wouldn't be able to see Sherlock's reaction, before he heard the door bang open.

John had expected a snort of derision followed by a snide remark. He'd hoped for a shout of surprise, perhaps even an unmanly shriek. He got neither.

There was a thud, as if something had been dropped, and then a single, low syllable.

"No."

It was strained and hoarse, only audible because the rest of the room was so silent, weighed down with…was that fear?

He hadn't had time to move before it came again.

"No!"

Louder this time, bordering on a shout, a scream, something drawn out and _painful_, that was followed by a second thump, heavier than the last. John hastily sat up straight and looked towards the doorway. Sherlock was leaning against the wall, braced as if his legs couldn't support his own weight, eyes closed, breathing harsh, chest rising and falling frantically as he murmured to himself "no, no, no..."

"Sherlock!" John said, dodging around the coffee table and running over, head spinning slightly. He skidded sideways to avoid the bag of dropped livers. "Sherlock, what-"

Sherlock's eyes flew open, registered John in a second, and then he let out a deep, shuddering breath and slid down the wall, hitting the floor before John could reach him. "You're alive."

The statement sounded both relieved and exhausted. John's heart began to pound guiltily. "Sherlock…" He knelt down beside him and put a hand on his shoulder, hesitating and uncertain. "Sherlock, I'm fine, it was a joke…"

Sherlock stiffened, and his hands clenched slightly. "I thought you were dead."

"No, it was-"

"I thought you were dead!" Sherlock cut him off with a hoarse, half-shout and pushed his hand away from his shoulder, baring his teeth like an animal, angry. John moved back hastily, but the fury faded as soon as it had appeared, and was replaced with a dull look of disappointment. It was almost worse. "If you'd wanted revenge for what happened during those three years…you could have just broken my arm or something…"

John's confusion was replaced with horror. The fact that Sherlock thought he'd be capable of intentionally making a mockery of what had happened made him feel sick. "No!" he gasped. "No, that wasn't it at all, I swear…" He put a hand up to his eyes and scrubbed them, ignoring the makeup that came away smeared on his palm and fingers. "Haven't you ever seen a zombie before?"

The silence spoke for itself – Sherlock's dull expression twisted into something that managed to be confusion, irritation and curiosity all in one.

"Of course not," John murmured, sitting down on the floor with a sigh – neither of them seemed to be fit emotional condition to stand up and go to the sofa like normal people. "It's Halloween, Sherlock. When people are supposed to dress in costumes and scare each other. A zombie is the walking dead, they don't exist. I thought someone as rational as yourself would have known that. I just wanted to make you jump, for a second. If I'd known what you were going to think…god, I wouldn't have done it." He sighed, looking at his makeup-smeared hands and deliberately avoiding Sherlock's gaze. "I wouldn't have done that to you. I'm sorry, I really am."

There was a long pause, in which John half-expected a cutting remark about responsibility or intelligence, something he no doubt deserved but didn't particularly want to hear. And then Sherlock's hand reached out and touched John's cheek, lifting his head gently up so they were eye to eye.

"John, you have to understand. Making the choice to leave you for those three years was one of the most difficult decisions I have ever made."

John looked into Sherlock's face, rapt and biting his lip. Sherlock had never talked much about his time away, the time John had been forced to endure grieving. Neither of them had wanted to discuss it; they'd just wanted to move on, forget about it. It had been easier than John had expected – he'd slipped so easily into Sherlock's life the first time round, the second time had seemed almost routine. He'd been angry, of course, and upset. And happy. Because, no matter what he'd been put through, he'd got Sherlock back. And that had been…a miracle.

He'd forgiven, because that was his nature.

"I was always grateful you were so willing to accept me after what I did; when I returned I wasn't entirely sure that would be the case. But I've always feared you resented me, and that you would leave. When you said it was a 'joke', I feared it was the beginning of such a situation." There was a pause, silence broken only by their heavy breathing, until Sherlock pushed on. "Of course, in my line of work, the chances of you being killed are far greater than if I were working in an office. The realities of either circumstance are something I don't like, but which I have to accept. Please, don't bring those realities any closer to me again."

John nodded and bit his lip. Part of him still hated that Sherlock thought he'd be capable of such a malicious trick, but he understood that worry and panic could make people think strange things. "I didn't intend for you to think that I was dead, not in that way, and it certainly wasn't that sort of payback. I'd swear to it. I'm sorry."

Sherlock nodded. "I know. And in future I shan't jump to conclusions so hastily."

John chuckled softly and kissed Sherlock's cheek before standing up, trying to gauge his reaction, feeling jumpy and strange. It might have been because he was still feeling guilty. Or it might have been that he wanted Sherlock to accept it, to be understanding and un-offended, even after the catastrophe that had been their evening so far.

Sherlock seemed surprised at first, blinking dazedly with his fingers pressed over his cheek, but finally a smile flitted across his face. John grinned and reached down a hand to help Sherlock up after him.

* * *

**I don't even know where this chapter came from. Or how it came to be this angsty. It was an accident, I swear. **

**Thanks for reading! Reviews welcome!**

**To be continued. **


	3. Filing

Ever since Sherlock and John had been spotted outside crime scene holding hands the rumours had been flying. Money had been exchanged from bets made years ago, and although no-one had asked, everyone had wondered. They didn't get their answers, and people moved on; Sherlock had come back from the dead and his genius had been proved true, and although his personal life was interesting, no-one found it quite as sensational.

Sally tapped her foot impatiently, waiting for Anderson to return so they could finish writing up the mass of paperwork for the latest case. He'd gone to put something in the file room, and he wasn't back yet. She checked her watch, waited another minute, and then rolled her eyes and went after him.

He wasn't hard to find, standing outside the file room door and staring at it like an idiot. "What are you _doing_?" she snapped – he hadn't even put away the files; she could see them still under his arm. "Are you having a mental breakdown or something?"

He jumped and turned to face her, opening and shutting his mouth like a fish. "I think…I think someone's in…in there."

She raised an eyebrow – Anderson was hardly cripplingly shy. "So?"

"John and Sherlock are in there."

She snorted. "Oh please, afraid the freak will pull your hair?" She stretched out a hand to the door, but Anderson stopped her by gripping her wrist.

"That's not what I mean. I don't think they're…er…filing things."

"What do you-oh." Her eyes widened. "Oh god, really?"

Anderson only looked at her weakly; he looked about as disturbed as she felt. "If one of them hadn't happened to…shout…I would have walked right in." He shuddered a little. "Listen."

Feeling like a pervert, but unable to resist the temptation, she pressed an ear to the door and listened to the faint sounds coming from within. There was a soft thump and a cry of 'careful', a giggle – that sounded like John, she couldn't imagine Sherlock giggling – and then a 'not there, the other way!'

She pulled back and swallowed. "God."

Anderson nodded. He looked rather sick. "I'm going to have nightmares. When I first got here one of them was saying 'oh god your trousers are in the way'."

"Anyone could walk in, you wouldn't think they'd dare," she muttered, flushing slightly as there was a second thud and a soft yelp, followed by a 'yes, there!'

"Sherlock would dare," Anderson said. Neither of them was moving, despite the fact the sounds coming from behind the door were causing them both to turn bright red.

"He sounds rather…incompetent," she whispered. Anderson covered his hand with his mouth and snorted.

"What are you two standing around for?" Lestrade's voice rang out in the almost-empty corridor and caused the both of them to jump and turn around guiltily.

"Nothing!" Anderson burst out, too quickly. Lestrade glowered at the two of them.

"What's going on?"

Anderson looked shifty, as if he were trying to think of some excuse, but Sally pushed him out of the way as she came forwards slightly. "The freak and his boyfriend are shagging each other in our filing cupboard."

Her words had the desired effect – Lestrade's eyebrows shot up so high they almost vanished into his forehead. "Oh."

"Yes, oh," she said, casting a wary glance at the door in case it should suddenly open and reveal something she really didn't want to see. There was another suggestive thump, and a groan. They all took a step backwards.

By now Lestrade was as bright red as the rest of them, but he cleared his throat and spoke quietly. "Yes…well…you can file your things later."

"But they're…you know…in the cupboard!" Anderson complained. "Surely that's against the building policy in some way."

"Are you going to go in there and tell them that?" he replied sharply. Anderson shut his mouth and shook his head, glowering at the floor, and Lestrade turned to Sally instead, raising an eyebrow.

"Don't look at me," she muttered sourly. "I was only trying to do my filing."

Lestrade scrubbed a hand through his hair and tottered off the way he'd come, leaving Sally and Anderson to make their way back to their office, still squirming uncomfortably every now and then.

* * *

Sherlock and John had gone into the filing cupboard to do exactly that – file. Sherlock tended to leave John to fill out any paperwork that needed doing, and for once John wasn't having it – he insisted Sherlock come and help him put it away, not once thinking he'd live to regret that demand entirely.

The box he needed to reach to put the papers in was way up on the highest shelf, and Sherlock, being a lazy sod, refused to lift a finger to help him get it down. He ended up standing on tiptoe and using his fingertips to edge it towards him, misjudged, and managed to bring the whole box down with a loud thump on his foot.

"Fuck!" he shouted, as his toes throbbed and the whole shelf wobbled precariously. Papers flew in the air scattered around the room, and by the time he'd extracted himself from the box Sherlock was glaring at him with haughty derision, one eyebrow raised.

"Well don't just stand there!" John hissed, clutching his sore foot. "Help me!"

"I could just stand here and watch; that would be far more amusing," Sherlock replied, smirking as he bent to start shoving the papers and files back into the box. "Luckily for you I'm extremely kind and generous."

John snorted. "Yeah, right." He limped around and began to stuff the papers into the box alongside Sherlock, and after a couple of minutes shuffling and panting they got them mostly in order and the lid back on the box, and began to heave it back up to the top shelf. They got it about three feet off the floor when Sherlock gave a yelp.

"Oh god, your trousers are in the way," John said, reaching over and unhooking the hem that had been caught in the lid of the box without either of them realising. They re-adjusted and began to lift it a second time, uncoordinated and giggling, thumping the heavy box against the side of the shelf every now and then.

"Not there, the other way!" John called as Sherlock, unable to see from the angle at which he was lifting, attempted to push the box into a spot on the shelf already occupied. John shuffled back a couple of paces, knocking against a cabinet with a thud, but finally they managed to get the box mostly in the right position to push into its slot.

"Yes, there!" John shouted triumphantly, beginning to force the whole thing back into place; Sherlock yelped as his fingers got trapped in the gap, but they gave it one more push, and finally the files slid into the correct place. John dropped his sore arms down with a groan and Sherlock stood panting, shaking out his sore finger and glowering at John, although it took him a few minutes to get his breath back to deliver a scathing remark.

"I told you paperwork was an idiotic enterprise."

John glared. "It wouldn't have spilled everywhere if you'd just helped me in the first place."

They bickered good-naturedly all the way down the corridor, hands brushing against each other discreetly. Sherlock's usually perfect hair and clothes were mussed and John was still limping slightly on his sore foot; he found it funny that both of them had ended up in such a sorry state from a simple filing cabinet.

He never did work out why Anderson gave them such a strange look as they passed by his office on their way to the stairs.

* * *

**Thanks for reading. Reviews welcome!**

**To be continued.**


	4. Incy Wincy

John knew that although Sherlock could gaze upon mutilated bodies, dissect eyeballs and poke around at guts without batting an eyelid, he didn't like spiders. Of course, the great detective had never admitted to such a weakness, but John couldn't fail to notice that he tended to avoid rooms that contained even the smallest arachnids until John took pity on either him or the spider and put it out of the window. He'd once tried to bring this up with Sherlock and got a very curt 'don't be an idiot John, they're harmless', which had pretty much convinced him that Sherlock Holmes, the man who wasn't scared of anything, was in fact afraid of small fuzzy things with eight legs.

He found the fact rather pleasing, although he never mentioned the topic again and continued to do his duty by throwing all spiders out of the window as soon as he spotted them. Even if he didn't spot them, he tended to work out where they were when Sherlock would sit resolutely in one part of the flat and refuse to enter the other.

It was a Friday, and John was tired and sore after a week where he'd had to work at the surgery during the day and run around London with Sherlock at night. He didn't realise at first that Sherlock, after giving John a 'hello' peck on the lips, was unusually quiet. John was too busy preparing a hasty dinner and shovelling it down, and he was used to Sherlock being quiet and brooding, sometimes sulking into the bargain. John didn't question his mood even when they curled up on the sofa to watch television and Sherlock didn't comment on its quality.

However, when he caught Sherlock brushing his teeth in the kitchen sink with his finger and the spare toothpaste John kept in their bedroom, it clicked.

"There's a spider in the bathroom, isn't there?"

Sherlock spat out his mouthful of toothpaste and flushed a little. "It's a giant spider," he said defensively.

John rolled his eyes; the thing was probably no bigger than a penny. "Sure it is."

A look of mild offence crossed Sherlock's face. "It is. It's a monster. I wouldn't be surprised if it was poisonous."

"Yeah, yeah. Shall I go and get rid of the mean spider for you?"

"It's evil, I'm warning you now."

John chuckled and went through to the kitchen to get a small cup and a used envelope to trap the spider before heading through to the bathroom. He pushed open the door with little apprehension, expecting the spider to be no bigger than two or three centimetres across, and so got the shock of his life when he actually saw the thing.

It was, as Sherlock had said, giant. Larger than his hand, hairy, dark brown, and sitting in their bathtub, glowering at him balefully. Even if John had dared get within range of it – which he certainly didn't – the cup he'd brought was woefully small. How a bird eating spider had managed to get into their bathroom, he didn't know, but he didn't question the fact, slamming the door and moving back a few paces, panting and swallowing.

"I told you it was massive," Sherlock called through from the kitchen. "Not to mention probably poisonous. But you didn't believe me."

"Alright, alright," John snapped, hurrying back into the lounge and putting the cup and envelope down – he was going to need something far bigger to deal with this. "Why the hell didn't you mention during the few hours I've been home 'hey John, just thought you should know, there's a tarantula in our bath'?"

Sherlock looked interested. "Is it a tarantula? I must say, I tend to delete most information surrounding large spiders."

"Yeah, because they scare the pants off you," John muttered under his breath, putting him on the receiving end of one of Sherlock's prime glares.

"Just get rid of it."

John rolled his eyes. "Yes sir. I'll use the mixing bowl to trap it. Or have you got an experiment in it again?"

Sherlock went and got the mixing bowl from the living room and emptied a large amount of sludge into the sink – it smelled like a mixture of not-quite-off yoghurt and ammonia – before rinsing the whole thing out and handing the bowl to John. "Here."

John might have teased Sherlock for being so afraid of spiders he ruined an experiment to be rid of one, but the fact that the spider was bigger than they were both used to made him keep his mouth shut as he turned and made for the bathroom, opening the door warily this time and eyeing the large brown huddle in the bath with distaste.

"Alright," he muttered to himself, approaching carefully. "It's just a spider. You've dealt with plenty of bugs in the past."

The spider continued to glower at him as if were extremely pissed off. John gulped, and then re-thought, putting the bowl down and grabbing a pair of thick rubber gloves Sherlock kept for more toxic experiments. They might not be much use, but he felt more secure with them on as he retrieved the bowl and edged his way towards the bath.

"Right, you bugger," he muttered to the spider. "Let's get you under here…" He leaned down suddenly and tried to clamp the bowl over the spider, but it scuttled away from him to the other end of the bath, and the plastic thudded down on empty space. John's hands jerked automatically away from the bowl, leaving it in the bath. Damn.

The spider, spooked by his movement, was making a bid for freedom up the sides of the bath. John gave a small snarl, grabbing the nearest object at hand – a loofah – and prodding the thing back down. It slid a few inches, and then changed tact, racing to the bowl, which he'd left abandoned, and trying to crawl up that instead. John cursed.

There was a knock on the door. "Is it gone?"

"No!" John called back, moving around and trying to nudge the wretched tarantula away from the bowl so he could pick it up again. "I've just managed to make it angry…"

"I have a fish tank," came Sherlock's voice from behind the door. "For when you catch it."

John gave a grunt of agreement and managed to scoop the spider away long enough to pick the bowl up. The thing was going mad, scrabbling around the bathtub until finally it decided to make a jump for him. John yelled in a decidedly not-brave way, considering he was an ex-soldier who confronted criminals on a pretty much daily basis, and leapt back, knocking over a nearby bucket with a loud crash. The spider jumped again and finally managed to get a purchase on the flannel they kept hanging over the side of the bath, beginning to claw its way up.

"John?" The door opened a crack and Sherlock's pale face appeared – he looked absolutely petrified. "Is it dead yet?"

John swore in response and tried to edge the arachnid back into the bath, but it wasn't having any of it and leapt onto the tiles with a soft thump. John whisked his feet out of the way by jumping back a second time as Sherlock let out a strangled sort of shriek and suddenly leapt forwards, bringing the plastic tank neatly over the spider with a slam.

There was a long silence broken only by the spider throwing itself against the plastic sides. Sherlock, with his hands pressed over the top of the tank, was nose to nose – or rather, nose to whatever spiders had instead – with it, eyes screwed shut.

"John…"

"I'm coming," John said, kneeling down and putting his own weight on the tank so the thing couldn't escape. "You can let go now."

Sherlock sprang back as if he'd been burned. "Right. Good." His voice came out a squeak; John almost laughed, but he restrained himself. "I'll just go and…um…"

"Call someone who can deal with this," John supplied. "A pet store or a zoo or something."

Sherlock dashed out of the room. The spider rose up against the tank, legs flailing, and John shot it a glare. "Oh no you don't. You're staying put, mate."

In the end he trapped the tank under the large, heavy box he kept the cleaning products in and weighted it down further with bottles from the kitchen before closing the door and going through to Sherlock, who was sitting very stiffly on the sofa with his mobile in one hand and his laptop beside him.

"I've called the local pet store," he murmured. "They said they'd send someone over in the morning."

"Fine. The spider can't get out; I've weighed the tank down."

Sherlock relaxed and flipped his laptop shut. "Good."

"How did the thing get in our bath in the first place?" John asked, throwing himself down in his armchair with a groan. "I mean, this is England. Not exactly its natural habitat."

"Probably someone's escaped pet," Sherlock mused. "Found its way into our house through the walls or something. Either that or Mycroft put it there as a practical joke."

John raised an eyebrow, and then laughed – the image of _Mycroft _purchasing a tarantula and putting it in their bathtub was something he found improbable but very amusing. Sherlock glowered.

"It's not funny. When I was six he planted a rubber spider in my bed."

For a second John retained his composure, and then he gave up and dissolved into giggles. "S-sorry," he gasped. "It's just…your _face_."

Sherlock pulled his knees up to his chest with a huff and turned around on the cushions, almost knocking his laptop to the floor, obviously starting to sulk. John rolled his eyes and went and sat next to him, perching on the arm of the sofa near Sherlock's head.

"Come on, don't be grumpy."

"You're laughing at me."

John sighed. "As if you wouldn't be laughing at me if I was in your position," he replied, reaching down and putting a hand in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock flicked his eyes up, still glaring, but less harshly. "Oh, don't look at me like that." John wiggled his fingers in Sherlock's hair. "I thought you were very brave." Sherlock puffed out a little, as he always did when he was flattered, even if he _knew _he was being flattered, and sat up straighter. John couldn't help but smile.

"You didn't believe me when I said it was a big spider." His pouting was a mock-up by now, designed to weasel more apologies or praise out of John.

"You think all spiders are big," he pointed out, winding curls around his fingers. "Even the tiny ones that wouldn't even scare Harry."

"Harry's afraid of spiders?"

"If they're bigger than her fingernail, yes."

Sherlock gave a low snort of laughter. John smiled and untangled his fingers, getting to his feet. "Go to bed, you daft git. I'll be on spider watch until help arrives."

* * *

**I hate spiders, and researching tarantulas was painful. If my facts are wrong about them, I'm sorry, I was trying not to look too closely. **

**Thanks for reading. Reviews welcome!**

**To be continued. **


	5. Accusations and Implications

**Warnings: Talk of domestic abuse.**

* * *

"Really, Sherlock," John murmured, clutching a sodden towel to his nose, which was spurting blood rather festively down the cloth. "I'm sure it'll stop in a minute."

Sherlock gave him one of those looks that clearly said 'you are an idiot but I love you anyway' and handed him a wad of tissues. The taxi driver was watching them with mild horror, but he'd unfortunately already agreed to drive them to the hospital before he realised how much blood there was.

"I can't believe I let him get away," John moaned thickly; his nose hurt. A lot.

"He punched you in the face; you were too preoccupied to prevent his escape."

John rolled his eyes; Sherlock was lying through his teeth. The man had been a simple thief; he'd taken down men twice as dangerous in the past without getting his nose broken.

The taxi slid to a halt with a jolt that moved his head too sharply for his nose's liking, and he gave a hiss. Sherlock glared at the driver as they got out, but paid him without making a fuss, which John was grateful for. In his opinion this trip was going to be hours of waiting around for a doctor to tell him exactly what he already knew and click his nose into place again. Of course Sherlock, ever the hypocrite, had insisted they go – John knew that if it had been the other way round he wouldn't have been able to get Sherlock anywhere near the place.

The secretary at the front desk waved them over to a small corner of the accident and emergency room. What with one thing and another they were becoming regulars at the A&E, mostly because Sherlock could never let anything go and criminals tended to be unhappy when confronted with damning evidence. Over the past few months John had been practically strangled, almost shot (twice), punched too many times to count and broken two fingers on two separate occasions. And he didn't regret any of it.

Sherlock had had his fair share, but he tended to be better at hiding it; mostly he ended up with mild concussions, because he liked to wind dangerous people up until they took a swing at his head with a blunt object. John treated him at home, unless it was really serious, in order to save time. And because Sherlock didn't like hospitals – he insisted it was because the smell made his nose hurt. Of course, when it wasn't him injured this problem seemed to vanish entirely.

Sherlock's fingers curled around his and John felt a head lowered onto his own. "I'm sorry about your nose."

John smiled as best he could with the tissues pressed to his face and shifted in the plastic chair to accommodate Sherlock better. "I've had worse."

Sherlock chuckled softly. John looked around the room and realised it was one of those nights where everyone and his wife had managed to injure themselves in some way, and were queuing up to be seen. Although he was bleeding rather impressively a broken nose was going to come way below some of the cases – like the guy in the corner who'd plainly fractured his arm or the little girl who was clutching her stomach and crying. They could easily be here all bloody night.

For the first hour Sherlock behaved himself. By that time John's nose had stopped spouting and had begun to throb dully in a way that made him wince every time he turned his head. If he had to sneeze the pain was going to be unbearable, but so far his luck seemed to be holding out. Sherlock wasn't particularly good company, but he was there and he wasn't insulting anyone so John counted himself fortunate.

A nurse passed by and stopped in front of them. "Are you here again Doctor Watson?"

"Afraid so, Charlotte." He heaved a dramatic sigh. The fact he knew most of the nurses by name made him realise that he spent far too much time in A&E.

She rolled her eyes. "You should get a loyalty card; what was it this time?"

"He was punched in the face," Sherlock chipped in before John could answer; he didn't like Charlotte – he didn't like _any _of the staff – and John knew he wanted her to leave quickly. "By a mugger."

"Oh no." Her face became sympathetic and she reached forwards and patted him on the shoulder. "We'll get you patched up as soon as we can, don't worry." As she passed by Sherlock John noticed the smile fall off her face, but he didn't worry about it – Sherlock's glare was hardly encouraging and friendly.

"You should be nicer to them, you know," he murmured. "They're only trying to help."

Sherlock let out a huff of irritation. "They're dull, and if they're not dull they're incompetent."

John glowered. "They're not incompetent – they're _trained_ professionals. In case you're forgetting, I'm also a doctor."

"Oh do shut up John," Sherlock snapped, loudly enough for the receptionist to cock an eyebrow in their direction. John felt his face flush.

"Sherlock…" he hissed warningly.

Sherlock huffed again and curled his lip, but lowered his voice. "You can't compare yourself to them. You're…different. When I refer to them as being dull and or incompetent you're not to think of yourself in that context."

John felt a mixture of oddly pleased and very frustrated. "Just…look, I know you're worried-"

"I'm not. You're fine."

"You _are _worried." John put a hand on Sherlock's arm. "You always act like this when we're here; like even more of a dick than usual."

Sherlock folded his arms and turned away. "I think they should check you for a concussion."

John sighed and leaned forwards, pecking Sherlock's cheek. "Hey, come on. It's not your fault, I promise."

"I could have…stopped it sooner. If I'd just-"

"Sherlock." John's voice was firm. Sherlock shifted to look at him. "It wasn't your fault. It can't be helped."

Sherlock didn't relax much – he was still straight-backed, still had his hands clasped – but his mouth loosened at the sides, and he might even have smiled. John patted his arm again and then pulled back as he realised a doctor he didn't recognise was standing in front of them; he wondered how long he'd been there.

"John Watson?"

John nodded. "Yes?"

"We're ready to see you now."

Sherlock frowned. John looked around them pointedly – it wasn't that he didn't want to get this over and done with, but…well, it was very clear that he wasn't first priority material at the moment. "I'm sorry, are you sure?"

The doctor nodded. John shrugged and got to his feet, feeling Sherlock stand beside him.

"I'm afraid we want to see Doctor Watson alone today," the doctor said firmly.

"Why?" Sherlock's tone was edgy; John could feel him almost bristling already.

"New policy; you'll have to remain in the waiting room for the duration of the check-up." He turned to John. "This way please."

John followed, slightly bewildered, but not thinking anything was particularly amiss – hospitals changed their policy all the time, new rules and regulations, some of which seemed ridiculous but had to be carried out anyway. They passed through a couple of corridors and finally into a side room with a two chairs and a table. The man gestured for John to sit down.

"I'm sorry, but I think you've got the wrong person," John said, not sitting as he wondered how many Doctor Watsons there may be in the waiting room that evening. "I'm here to get my nose fixed." He gestured towards it with a nervous smile.

"Yes, I know. Please sit."

John sat, still confused. His insides were niggling uncomfortably.

"Excuse me," the doctor said, before John could ask any more questions. "I'm going to fetch my colleague. Please remain here; he shouldn't be more than five minutes." He vanished through the door so quickly John didn't even have time to open his mouth.

John ran his eyes around the room a couple of times, but saw nothing remarkable about it. What he was sure of was that it wasn't the sort of place they took you to fix a broken nose; it reminded him of his physiatrist's room more than anything else. There was nothing on the walls, but there were several leaflets on the table. With nothing better to do, he reached over and picked one up in the hope of distracting himself from his painful nose.

The first one was about domestic abuse and its signs. He gave it a cursory glance and put it back. The second was along similar lines. So was the third. They may have been different colours, adorned with different drawings and designed for different audiences, but they were essentially the same thing. His brow furrowed and he bit his bottom lip, just as the door opened and a second doctor stepped through. He had glasses and looked a few years older than John, sideburns flecked with grey.

"Excuse me," John said immediately, seizing a handful of the leaflets and holding them up. "What's the meaning of this?"

The doctor didn't reply until he'd sat down smoothly and crossed one leg over the other. He had a clipboard tucked under one arm. "I'm Doctor Baker, although you can call me Peter if you prefer. I'm here to ask if there's anything you need to discuss about your personal life. Friends. Family." He paused. "Your partner."

"Why, what's he done now?" John asked. It was automatic – for a second he assumed Sherlock had been sneaking off to steal arms or feet whilst he wasn't looking. Even though he had the leaflets still clutched in his hand, even though he'd guessed why he was here, he couldn't register the fact.

"That is for you to talk about, should you wish. It's important you note I'm not trying to pressurise you into saying anything. I'm only here to listen and answer any questions you might have."

It clicked for John in the way Doctor Baker's eyes were drawn to his nose, bruised and bloody. He registered, and he stared.

"Oh god," he murmured. "You think…you think _Sherlock_…" He was squeezing the leaflets so tightly he was bending them, glossy paper cutting sharply into his palms. "Why do you think that?"

Doctor Baker looked at John intently, considering. He waited a minute before speaking, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably. "Mr Watson, you visit the hospital on average every month, for physical injuries inflicted by another person. I have had several reports from the nurses of snatches of conversation picked up between you and Mr Holmes – the latest being today – and I'm here to inquire if there is any aspect of your personal life you may need to…discuss."

John stood up, angry. "I'm sorry, but am I being held here?"

"Of course not."

"In that case, I'm leaving."

Before he could make it to the door Doctor Baker was speaking. "If you don't feel you're ready to talk yet, that is perfectly acceptable," he said. "I'm aware that this is a very delicate situation; but please, read one of the leaflets before you go."

John paused with his hand on the doorknob, breathing deeply. "Look," he said eventually, turning to Doctor Baker, who was eyeing him with a mixture of understanding and supportive sympathy. It was infuriating. "I understand you have to ask these kinds of questions, that you're only trying to do your job, but please, don't ever accuse Sherlock of something like that again, not in front of me, and certainly not in front of him."

"Doctor Watson…"

"No, listen," he snapped. "I understand how this seems to you. But you've got it wrong; I have an extremely dangerous job that lands me in hospital far too regularly, and a partner who's arrogant and tends to be a little socially inept. But I'm afraid you've put two and two together and managed to make ten."

Doctor Baker raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry?"

"I broke my nose today because a mugger punched me in the face."

"Which was the explanation your partner, not you, gave the nurse," Doctor Baker murmured, looking at his clipboard. "However…"

"No, no 'however's," John growled. "It's what happened." He realised he wasn't getting anywhere – the doctor had his own views and opinions, and shouting wasn't going to help him get the point across. "Show me the list," he said. "Show me whatever you've got written on your clipboard."

After a second's hesitation, the doctor handed it over. John scanned it quickly, noting every little thing they had written down about him – they must have been keeping tabs for weeks.

"I can explain all of these," he said eventually, going back to the chair and sitting down, still holding the board. "The bruises on my neck, last month, were because I ended up alone in the same room as the Fletcher murderer." He glanced up and saw the doctor's eyebrows raise – the case had been all over the media, although it wasn't announced who'd actually solved the murder. Sherlock's return had been kept low-profile. "Sherlock saved my life then. And there's this one." He jabbed at a line on the clipboard for emphasis. "Broken finger, four months ago. Sherlock got himself into trouble again, and I had to wade in and punch two guys, both of whom were taller than me."

The doctor's mouth was slightly open. John sighed. "I could go on all night, but I don't know if you'd believe me. So, please listen. Sherlock and I have a fairly functional relationship – it gets tricky in places because of our work with the police, and the way we both are, but we get through it. I understand how this must seem to you, and I appreciate what you've done to try and make things better. If you were right about this, then it would probably be the correct thing to do." He stood up again and handed the clipboard back. "But you're wrong. And I want this to stop right now."

The doctor looked at him closely for a long time, and then nodded. "In that case I apologise for any incorrect assumptions-"

John cut him off. "You were doing your job. I'm not going to sue you; but please, don't bother me again."

He left swiftly, returning to Sherlock, who looked at him quizzically. "What was that about?" he said crossly, folding his arms. "They didn't even fix your nose…"

John sighed and sat back down. "They got the wrong Watson – I'll be seen to as soon as they can manage it."

If Sherlock knew he was lying then he didn't say anything.

* * *

**Thanks for reading. Reviews welcome!**

**To be continued.**


	6. Stage

"No," Sherlock said, folding his arms and looking at John with a mixture of contempt and disbelief. "Not even if you threatened to tie me to the ceiling."

John groaned; he had a hell of a lot of negotiating to do, or so it seemed. "Sherlock, we've got no choice."

Sherlock looked even less impressed. "That's hardly my fault. You should have been better prepared for such circumstances."

A sigh – not the first, and certainly not to be the last – escaped John's lips, and he adjusted the black material resting over his arms. "Sherlock. Please. It's only the last damn scene, for god's sake; it's not as if I'm asking you to climb a mountain…"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "No, but you are asking me to put on an outfit of what frankly looks like a crude mixture of cat and cow skin and caper around on a stage in front of Scotland Yard. Singing."

John sighed again and slumped into a chair; the day had been a nightmare. When he'd agreed to audition for a part in the Yard's Christmas charity production of Grease he hadn't expected to get theleading male role – they must have been _very _thin on the ground when it came to willing cast members with a half-decent voice – and he certainly hadn't expected the lead female to disappear halfway through the second act to go and empty her stomach in the toilets. Twice. There was no way she was getting back on that makeshift stage tonight.

Which left them short on a Sandy with two songs left and an audience that was going to be extremely irritated at being kept waiting. The kids were going to be disappointed, and the adults were going to be pissed off and unlikely to 'give generously', which was the whole damn point.

Sherlock had been watching because he'd wanted to laugh at John singing with his hair slicked back. He looked like he was regretting it now.

"We've tried everything," John wheedled. "It's Christmas – everyone who doesn't already have a part is on holiday. We've rung round Louise, Fiona, even Bruce. The outfit's only black trousers and a top, and you're about the same height as Karen, you can get away with it. You saw the movie last week and, most importantly, you can sing and memorise most of two pages of script in…" he glanced at his watch. "Fifteen minutes, max, or everyone has to go home."

"Let them go home," Sherlock said, turning up his nose. "Or get one of the other female cast members to wear it and dance. Or ask the people already here."

John scrubbed a hand over his face. "We checked the other members of Scotland Yard – Sally sounds like a chorus of cats, and that receptionist has a decent voice, but practically passes out on a stage. As for the other female members of the cast, we've only got two. One of them is already playing three different parts, neither of them can do Sandy on top of that. And the men…" He snorted. "None of them would entertain the notion of being Sandy."

"It's not my problem," Sherlock snapped.

"Yes it is," John retaliated. "Because it's _my _problem, and I want you to help me. I am asking nicely. In fact, I am practically begging you to rescue the last fifteen minutes of this wretched production, or there are going to be a lot of upset children and hungry people this Christmas because _you _don't dare put on these."

"Not going to work," Sherlock muttered. "You put them on."

John groaned in frustration, checking his watch again – time was ticking. "Right, fine," he muttered. "You know what? You be me. If it bothers you so much being in Karen's outfit, I'll put it on." He knew already it was going to be far too tight for him around the waist and about four miles too long at the arms and ankles – when cast members had been thin, they _really _had been thin, and he and Karen had been the most mismatched dancing couple in existence – but he had very little choice. If he broke an ankle he could hurl his crutches in Sherlock's direction. He threw off his leather jacket and unbuckled his jeans before chucking them in Sherlock's face and fiddling with the slinky leather trousers, trying to work out how they went on.

Sherlock eyed him as he struggled and puffed, not doing a thing to help – damn him, damn everything – and finally managed to drag the material up his legs, feeling like an idiot and just wanting to get the thing over with quickly. The black shirt next. Arms. Where were the arm holes?

"Stop gawping and get into those jeans!" he barked, fighting with the left sleeve. It was never going to fit. Never in a million years. "You have two songs to learn within ten minutes, get a bloody move on!"

"John…"

"I don't want to hear it!" He staggered and almost fell over a nearby prop – tacky cardboard and bad paint, handmade just like everything else.

"John, I'll wear it."

John stopped. "What?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and put the jeans and jacket down before peeling the ill-fitting trousers off John and taking off his own shoes. "That leather does nothing for you." He slipped into the trousers far more easily than John had, and even though the sleeves of the shirt were slightly too short for him at least the legs fitted. "Now where's the script?"

"Sherlock, I think I love you," John said as he handed it to him with a huff of relief and scrabbled back into his jeans.

"You'd better if I'm going to sing in front of Anderson for you," Sherlock muttered, reaching up and tugging away his scarf, eyes fixed on the page in front of him. The shirt draped a little around his collarbones with no bust to hold it up, but other than that, it was passable.

"I do," John said, standing on tiptoe to peck Sherlock on the lips. "Thank you for helping us finish this."

Sherlock only snorted.

* * *

"There is no way they are getting this production on again," Lestrade whispered, walking swiftly over to where Dimmock, Anderson and Sally were gathered, looking between the stage and the now-restless audience with a mixture of confusion and apprehension. "Karen's got that bug that's been going around. No-one else who isn't busy during their holiday can sing, or is willing to take over. We're buggered."

Sally gave a groan. "I spent _weeks_ painting those props."

"Told you this was a stupid idea," Anderson muttered, rolling his eyes. "A musical for god's sakes – no-one can even sing. We've got _John Watson _as our lead role. He's hardly a young, teenage hunk."

Lestrade chuckled softly. "He's certainly young enough to shag his boyfriend in our filing cupboard."

Dimmock spat out the mouthful of coffee he'd just swallowed and Anderson went bright red whilst Sally spluttered with something that could have been laughter or disgust; it was difficult to tell.

The audience was beginning to trickle away, the people at the edges leaving first whilst those trapped in the middle rustled around impatiently with handbags or sweet wrappers. Lestrade was fully aware they'd lost them, and the people with buckets at the doors were practically useless. One or two of the kids were complaining loudly.

"We'll just have to think of something for a few weeks time," he murmured, standing back a little to let past a man and a woman who didn't even bother to say thank you and were muttering amongst themselves.

Sally, Dimmock and Anderson began to shuffle around, getting ready to pack things away and write the whole thing off, when the lights suddenly went dim again. Lestrade slammed a hand into his forehead – the last thing they needed right now was a power failure into the bargain – before realising that they weren't off completely, and frowned instead.

"What's going on?" he heard Sally whisper to Dimmock. "What are they doing?"

There was a pause. The audience muttered amongst themselves for a couple of seconds, and then one of the girls who'd been playing two parts as it was came onstage, clutching a microphone and giggling. He recognised her as the young officer who'd only joined the Yard a few weeks ago.

"We're…um…sorry for the delay, we've had…" Another chuckle forced its way past her trembling lips, and he rolled his eyes – hardly the time to get a kind of hysterical stage fright. She'd been fine earlier. One of the better performers, in fact. "Technical difficulties. But we are pleased to welcome our stand-in and continue as planned."

"What's she giggling at?" Dimmock muttered. "And who the hell have they got to stand in at this short notice?"

"Shh," he hissed, eyes fixed on the stage as the music started up.

John came on first, looking ruffled but otherwise normal; in the dim light the slicked back hair didn't look too appalling. He began to sing, just as before – Greg had to admit he had guts, not to mention a half-passable voice.

"I got chills…they're multiplying…"

Anderson snickered. Lestrade's mouth turned up a little, and then suddenly dropped open as the stand-in appeared onstage, leather trousers and all – minus the high-heels – and he realised, like a slap to the face, that that was Sherlock Holmes dressed in Karen's outfit. And pulling it off, to give him credit. There were a couple of mutters from the audience, and then silence as Sherlock picked up the next verse of the song; he was a better singer than John, marginally. Not as good as Karen. But good.

Beside him Anderson looked like he was about to faint; Sally had doubled over with silent laughter and Dimmock was staring with a look of pure disbelief.

"It can't be…" Dimmock muttered, only just loud enough for Greg to hear over the music. His eyes were glued to the stage. "That _cannot _be…I'm dreaming."

"I wish I were," Anderson muttered. "God, I wish I were."

"You've got to give it to him, he can move his hips," Sally said softly, straightening up a little. Anderson looked a mixture of vaguely nauseated and amused as Sally nudged Greg. "Hey, are you getting pictures of this?"

Greg shook his head regretfully. "He's doing us a favour; we can't use this as blackmail material."

Onstage the song was in full-swing. John was grinning through his words, it was obvious, even from the back of the room. And Sherlock…well, he didn't look awkward. Or annoyed. He looked like a bloke who happened to be dressed in some black trousers and was singing to his…whatever he and John were.

"I wonder if Watson promised to murder someone to get him into that," Dimmock said. The audience were clapping by now, and one or two were laughing in the way that indicated they were having a good time, thank you very much. The song was drowned out a little by the noise. Spirits were lifting. People were smiling and as he watched Sally put her hands together and began to clap for them as the song drew to a close.

It was then it finally hit home; that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were absolutely, completely in love. They'd brought life to a performance about love, and there was no mistaking it; Sherlock was smiling, John was smiling, and the audience could feel and take on those smiles, soak up the atmosphere, laugh.

Dimmock turned to him, practically shouting over the swelling noise. "How long do you bet before we're invited to their wedding then?"

And, even though he wasn't sure when he'd started, Greg found he was clapping with the rest of them.

* * *

**It's Christmas, please forgive me.**

**Thanks for reading! Reviews welcome!**

**The end.**


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